


I Was Fixed on Your Hand of Gold

by Cinderscream



Series: kat does sledgefu week 2020 [1]
Category: The Pacific (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, snafu and gene are in love, snafu and gene get a dog, surprisingly little violence for a pacific fic, there is a bit of gore mentioned in a dream sequence but not much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25550581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderscream/pseuds/Cinderscream
Summary: Five letters in Sledge and Snafu's lives, two for Snafu's mother, three for Sidney Philips
Relationships: Merriell "Snafu" Shelton & Eugene Sledge, Merriell "Snafu" Shelton/Eugene Sledge
Series: kat does sledgefu week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860643
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20
Collections: Sledgefu Week 2020





	I Was Fixed on Your Hand of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> one of my entries for Sledgefu week! I'm here to have a good time, angst who??

_ Dear Sid,  _

_ I write this letter in a hurry, but I promise you that I am well, and that you do not need to come hunt me down or whatever it is you are likely to be planning. I have sent my parents a similar letter, and I do not envy Eddie for being there to see my mother’s initial reaction to not returning home immediately. In retrospect, perhaps I should not have been so hasty in getting off the train in Louisiana rather than heading home to Alabama, but I do not regret it. I shall write to you again with a better explanation.  _

_ Your best friend, Eugene Sledge _

…

At some point, the decision to get off the train with Snafu in Louisiana had become less a flight of fancy that had brushed airy wings against his mind and more a prophecy set in stone to happen, as inescapable as a Greek tragedy. Hopefully less tragic though, he thinks as he watches the rays of the sun stroke Snafu’s golden skin, lighting the edges of his dark curls with streaks of white, softening his face into something young and boyish, an innocence in the blue-going-on-silver of his eyes that could only exist in the sleepy drag of approaching dusk. 

Snafu’s so deep in thought that he doesn’t feel the burn of Sledge’s eyes on the curve of his freckled cheek, and Sledge takes advantage of it, anchoring into him to stop the cycling of his own turbulent thoughts. 

They’ve both been quiet since Burgie left, some strange tension growing between them. Snafu keeps his eyes locked on the blurred fields outside the train, streaks of vibrant green and yellow that melt slowly into marshland and Sledge keeps his eyes locked on the side of Snafu’s face, unable to make himself look away, trying to etch his curves and sharp edges into his mind because there’s the oddest feeling in his chest like if he doesn’t, and Snafu leaves, he’ll take every memory of himself, of the warmth of his calloused hands, the scent of gunpowder and smoke, the low drawl of is voice and all that’s going to be left is the raw ache of a ragged hole in Sledge’s chest where Snafu had made his home in. Because Snafu wormed his way under his skin, the curl of his white smile like a dagger to his heart. 

He doesn’t look away until night blankets the sky (he hadn’t even noticed when the darkness had crept across the sky with its starry cape and gentle chill), and Snafu’s long fallen asleep, his cheek pressed into the vinyl of the train seat, long eyelashes shadowing his face and hiding the dark circles under his eyes. Snafu’s always been able to sleep wherever and whenever he wanted, like a cat that could find comfort in any nook and cranny, and he was just as easy to wake, always just on the edge of alertness. 

Sledge had envied that, unable to sleep for the first week on the unforgiving terrain of the islands, too wet or too hot and never quite managing to even properly relax enough for a nap, and his mood would grow temperamental and sharp the less sleep he got, like the feeling of a rock digging deeper and deeper into the sole of his foot and unable to do a damn thing about it. It makes sense, though, he thinks, because that’s just been Snafu’s life from the start from what Snafu’s told him in stolen moments in their foxhole. Sleep where you can, but never too deeply, and then he’d go quiet and his eyes would go distant and Sledge would take his hand and they would be silent together. 

They’re silent now, but not quite  _ together _ . Not like in their foxhole, crowded too close, Snafu’s head fitting in the junction between Sledge’s neck and shoulder like some long forgotten puzzle piece, matted curly hair ticking the side of Sledge’s face. 

Snafu’s hair isn’t matted now, washed and styled carefully into something close to respectable, the wild gleam of his eyes and the serrated edge of his smile cutting him short of tame (and Sledge doubts that anything would ever make Snafu seem  _ tame _ , something in his eyes speaking of something that belongs to the lamplit night). It’s a little strange, seeing him like this, the boy under the grime and the blackened singes, cut into the picture of a handsome soldier when Sledge had met him and seen him for so long as a feral, skeletal creature, teeth too sharp and tongue too thirsty, the hunch of his bony shoulders as he fought to survive and it had been strange to become a creature with him and the rest of their company, human only in the smokey shadow of a shared cigarette, the sun too hot above them but almost preferable to the wet rot of the rain. 

“You should try to sleep.”

Sledge startles, not sure when he’d stopped paying attention to Snafu, blinking away the dark afterimage of the black night from his eyes. 

There’s a little smirk on Snafu’s face, eyes tinged with fondness and Sledge manages to offer a faint smile back as he tries to shake the cobwebs from his mind. 

“New Orleans is comin’ up soon”, he says. 

Snafu’s smirk drops, as do his eyes, fixating instead on his fingernails, picking at the quick. 

“I want to go with you.”

Snafu snaps his head up so quickly that Sledge worries about whiplash, mouth open though no words come out. His eyes are round, shocked. Sledge doesn’t say more, but he keeps his gaze steady, sure, because he’d decided a while back (Texas, maybe, after Burgie had slipped off the train, after he’d become a black speck in the distance, arms still curled around his younger brother) that this is what he wanted and there’s this surge of emotion like if he doesn’t do this now, he’ll lose his opportunity and he’ll lose Snafu, and Sledge doesn’t want to lose the one thing that is still familiar to him in a world that feels like an old glove, too tight, uncomfortably squeezing and pinching at his skin. 

Slowly, Sledge slides his hand across the table between them, and Snafu stares at it, a wary cat looking at something that has the potential to hurt him, but he meets him halfway, their fingers brushing, then intertwining. 

“You sure about this?” Snafu asks, an aching, raw timber to his voice.    


And Sledge nods. 

…

_ Chere maman,  _

_ I know, yeah, it’s been a good while since I wrote you a letter. I’m sure the old groundskeeper misses me, it’s not like the old man has anyone else to talk to since I think I’m the only one who even goes out to that graveyard anymore. I owe him one, for letting me burn these letters at your grave without kicking me out and for being a fucking decent guy.  _

_ … I didn’t write while I was away- little time, you know? And couldn’t risk giving anything about myself away, so I have a lot to get down. The war was shit, which about sums up… everything that I went through (maybe not everything, I admit, but most of it), and at this point I don’t even think the free food was worth it. I did things I don’t think you’d be proud of me for doing. I did things  _ I’m _ not proud of me for doing, but it’s in the past, I guess. You do what you do for money and to survive. You always did tell me that the past should stay buried, but I don’t know about this. It’s funny, I didn’t have nightmares over there, or at least not any that I remember, but the first night I slept in my bed- and I was real excited over that, I hated the damn cots and foxholes, even if I could sleep well enough in them, they left my back and shoulders in knots. Stupid shit to complain about, I know, but if I was grouchy, then my foxhole partner was even grouchier because Sledge probably ain’t ever slept in anything other than goose feathers or whatever kind of shit rich people sleep in.  _

_ Anyway. I know my actual bed ain’t nothing to write about, but it felt like a cloud compared to everything else I’ve slept on in the past few months, so you can imagine my… surprise when Gene had to wake me up because I was screaming in my sleep. I mean, Gene hasn’t been dreaming well either, but I always thought it’d be the other way around- though I guess since I woke him from his nightmares with my screams, it’s almost like that, in a fucked up sort of way.  _

_ I’m debating, whether I should tell you what I dreamed about. On one hand, I’ll be burning this letter, so it’s not like anyone would see it, and Gene wants me to talk about it, says it’d be good for me. But I don’t want to burden him, he’s dealing with his own nightmares, and I’m fine, listening to him talk. I’d rather listen to him talk than have him see me… like that. Which might be a stupid, seeing as he saw what I was like at war, but it’s just. Different, I think. Letting him see me like that, all broken up and crying when it’s raining and there’s gunfire to muffle it than it is breaking down at home, on my shitty couch while he’s holding me. That’s supposed to soft and I fuck up so much shit already, I don’t want to fuck that up too. I don’t want to fuck up with Gene. On the other hand, these letters are for you, not for me. Where I share whatever scrap of good I’ve been able to find and share it with you with the hope that- I don’t know. That maybe I deserve it. I never think I do. I know you’d disagree with that, but I’m different from the person who I was when you were alive.  _

_ It would make Gene feel better if I at least wrote it down elsewhere. I don’t know, maybe I’ll finally take cousin Marie’s advice and start a dream journal, make the annoying bitch shut up about it.  _

_ All that rambling and I still haven’t properly told you about Gene, have I?  _

_ The two most important things you need to know about him is that I love him and that I don’t deserve him. He loves me too, for some reason, never gives me a moment to doubt it. You would’ve liked him. He’s polite like you’ve always wanted me to be, and he’s kind, despite the war trying to warp him. Well, I think we all came out warped, with a war like that it can’t be helped. And I didn’t know it was possible for me to get any more fucked up! My friend, Burgie (and hell if he ain’t his own letter- later though, this one’s getting long enough as it is) called me Snafu. Situation normal, all fucked up. _

_ Papa would’ve thought it accurate, but then, Papa wouldn’t have liked Gene, so who cares what he thinks? He thinks all rich boys are the same, and admittedly, I had the same opinion of Gene until the son of a bitch went back and saved me. He’s braver than I gave him credit for, stupider too for deciding to stick around. I’m too selfish to tell him to leave, though. Don’t know what I’d do with myself if he ever realized he was better off without me, but I wouldn’t stop him from leaving if that’s what he wanted.  _

_ I love him. I said that already, but I need you to know that I mean it. I love him. One day, I might be able to say the words to his face.  _

_ Yours, Merry.  _

_ … _

His streak of waking up with a scream choking him is, as yet, unbroken. 

Sledge is there, cold hands clutching tightly at his shoulders, blunt fingernails digging into his flesh to help ground him, the pain of it real, corporeal. The images behind his eyelids flicker, the tacky stain of scarlet on his hands, the whites of other men’s eyes too close. Bullets, mowing down his company, Burgie’s head splattered against a boulder, Leyden’s wide, blank eyes raised to the sickly yellow sky. Sledge, with a stream of blood leaking from the side of his mouth, cradled in his arms. 

Somehow, he never cries. 

He screams and yells and curses, French turning his words jagged, but he doesn’t cry, the tears filming his eyes, stinging, but never falling. It’s not even intentional, but some thick, stubborn part of him refusing to let go of this one bit of weakness (not weakness, as Sledge has told him so many times, but some part of him still perceives it as such, sees it as an unforgivable loss of control). So he doesn’t cry. 

And Sledge is there, a comfortable, cool balm to the magma that runs amok through his veins, making him feverish and panicked, the choked heat of his dreams slowly washed away by the scent of Sledge’s shampoo (different than his, because his is meant to take care of his curls, Sledge insists, though Snafu suspects it’s an excuse to sit with him in the tub and lather it into his scalp- not that he’s complaining) something that smells distinctively fresh, like maybe a wild field of flowers. It’s soft and silky, and it gleams red even in the pale slivers of moonlight that spill in through his shutters and he buries his face in it, takes comfort in the lack of smell of death- because that’s what Sledge is now, he thinks. The absence of death. 

(Better to think that than imagine the blood staining both of their hands or when Sledge’s temper flashes so badly it scares the both of them, but that- those are thoughts for blacker nights and this, this is not one of them). 

“I’m here, I’m right here Mer”, says Sledge, his voice a quiet rumble in his throat. Snafu nods, opens his eyes to drink in the sight of Sledge’s pale face in moonlight, glowing faintly as if emitting a light of it’s own (or maybe Sledge is a celestial body himself, and Snafu is the waves, reaching, reaching, reaching-)

Sledge kisses him, and the thoughts, the dreams, fade away. 

…

_ Dear Sid _

_ Thanks for the books! I promise I’ll be over for my birthday in a few days, though I have no doubt that my mother will be disappointed I could not be there the day of. And actually, I am quite pleased to hear about you and Mary, you both deserve to be happy, and it pleases me that you have someone so supportive in your life. As for me, well. I have Merriel.  _

_ I know it is not something you really understand, and I do not really expect you to, I’ve come to terms that not a lot of people that I know wouldn't, but I thank you for being discreet. And I know you’ve said before that it does not bother you, that you know I need someone to be able to talk to other than Merriel (I do, mind you, Burgie and some other members of K company are still in correspondence with me), but I still feel guilty for it. But you are my best friend, and I could trust you with anything, and I feel better putting my thoughts to paper. I have been doing a lot of that recently, rewriting everything I wrote in my bible in a proper journal, adding more to it. It helps me a fair amount more than I thought it would, though I don’t burn my thoughts like Merriel does his.  _

_ He is quite thoughtful, actually. Thoughtful in that he writes a lot more than you would think he would and thoughtful in that he seems to always remember things I mention off hand. Just the other day he remembered that I was talking about how pretty the wisteria at the nearby flower shop was, that I wouldn’t have thought they’d have any this time of year, especially in Louisiana and he bought some to hang on our porch. Brings out quite the pop of color, and believe it or not Merriel Snafu Shelton was sheepish about it! He bought me this volume for the classes I have been taking at a local college and I told him to stop being so frivolous with his money just to get me nice gifts (and I know he only does it for me, the only time I’ve ever seen him buy something nice for himself was a new lighter he got months ago after we’d gotten off the train), but he insists that it’s his money and if he “wants to buy some nice shit that’s what he’s gonna fucking do”. He’s unbelievable.  _

_ We have a dog now, too. Her name is Henrietta, she’s missing a leg, has half an ear and Merriel adores the absolute hell out of her. I don’t blame him either, she’s a complete sweetheart and after… several baths you wouldn’t have known she was a street mutt that followed Merriel on his way home from work. I would hardly call her a replacement for Deacon, she’s too big and slobbery for that, but she’s something entirely different. All of this feels entirely different. It’s not that Louisiana and Henrietta and Merriel are replacements for Alabama and Deacon and you, no, God but it’s nothing alike, though I can see where the comparisons can be made. Here it is… not so stifling, as it was in Mobile. I love Merriel in a very,  _ very  _ different way than I love you. I like it here though. I get the feeling that if I had gone straight home, I would have suffocated under my idleness.  _

_ I will admit, though, that I am excited to see you and my parents again soon! If I could convince Merriel to let me buy a phone for us, that would probably make communication a lot easier, but I like writing, so I might just hold off on that idea.  _

_ Your best friend, Eugene Sledge _

_ … _

Sledge has never tried to read the letters Snafu writes to his mother- couldn’t even if he wanted to when they’re all written in French. He’s seen his handwriting, though, fast jagged swipes of his hand that leave his cursive a little disjointed, but Sledge rather likes the look of it. His own is small and loopy and neat, and that’s fine, but he thinks there’s something charming about Snafu’s handwriting. 

The envelope in Snafu’s hand only has his mother’s name, paired with a colorful bouquet of wildflowers (from his mother's favorite patch near a church she had gone to when she was a little girl). He’s pulled on a heavy coat that Sledge had convinced him to buy for the more bitter months (because though it doesn’t get quite so cold, it’s still enough that that the coat would come in handy). Henrietta runs circles around Snafu’s legs, surprisingly fast despite her missing leg and somehow, Snafu keeps from tripping over her, reaching for the thick woolen hat that Sledge’s mother had sent him as an early Christmas gift. (That, and a set of recipes that she’d never so much as let anyone else glimpse up, because at Sledge’s birthday party they’d hit it off on the topic of cooking and had turned his mother from ambivalent to his best friend. It would figure that cooking would bring them together when they were both prone to anxious baking). 

“C’mere”, says Sledge, and Snafu does, trotting over with a little smile tilting his mouth into something distinctly feline. 

Sledge grins, pressing a kiss to his forehead and slipping the scarf he’d been hiding behind his back around Snafu’s neck, wrapping it so it covers half his face and doing nothing to hide the grumpy furrow of his brow. 

“Rude”, he says, voice muffled, but he doesn’t take it off, breathing in the lingering scent of Sledge from the fluffy blue wool. Sledge is immediately forgiven when he pulls Snafu into a proper kiss, lingering and soft, his hands cradling Snafu’s jaw and stroking a thumb along the high bone of his cheek. Snafu’s arms snake around his waist, the kiss languid and sweet, unhurried. They break apart when they’ve run out of breath, Snafu’s eyes a hazy hyper-blue, brightened by strong rays of golden light streaming through the windows, his plush lips bruised red, faint flush pinking his cheeks. 

Sledge feels a burst of fondness for him, for this boy who, under all the prickly and sharp exterior is kind and loving and so beautiful to him, and maybe it’s a little hard to swallow, looking at him like this, the awe in his pale eyes at  _ Sledge  _ of all people, his throat dry. He leans in, prepared to kiss him again, but the moment is ruined by Henrietta, who pushes between them, thick, fluffy tail thumping wildly in excitement and hopping up to slobber all over Snafu’s face.    
  
“Argh!” Snafu exclaims, nearly toppling back with the weight of the dog. 

He shoots Sledge a glare for laughing, but there’s a smile twitching on his face, and when he pushes Henrietta back down, he gently pats her head.

“Okay, okay, we’re goin’”, he grumbles good-naturedly, grabbing the leash by the door and clipping it to the large dog’s collar. Sledge follows after thim, getting as close as he dared to Snafu and still shivering in the autumn chill. Snafu had said he’d been lucky to still find any flowers blooming so late in the season but he’d seemed delighted with himself, keeping them alive until it was time to go to his mother’s grave. 

Sunday. It’s always Sunday, though not every week. Usually, he’d go after he’d finished writing down as many thoughts as he wanted, which could range anywhere from half a page to what could amount to a novel. This is only Sledge’s third time going with him, but by now, the path to the practically abandoned cemetery is familiar to him, dead grasses lining the dirt path, the tall, wrought iron fence speaking of a place that had once been cared for. Snafu waves at the groundskeeper and Sledge nods at him, the old man not smiling back, but Sledge can see the way his eyes soften, and he lets them pass without a word. 

They cemetery is as cared for as it could be, with the funding that it has, but there’s a special care laid out for stone that marks Snafu’s mother’s grave, pockmarked but still in one piece, the grass around it trimmed, the traces of old, dried out flowers removed to make way for new ones. 

Sledge stays back, Henrietta’s leash curled around his wrist as Snafu crouches down next to his mother’s grave, tracing the curve of the stone with a feather-light touch, murmuring a quiet greeting to her in French. 

They’re silent as the letter burns and the smoke reaches to the sky like hands made of hazy, gray tendrils. 

…

_ Chere maman,  _

_ Is it possible to love someone so much that your heart’s fit to burst? Did you feel like that with my papa before he left us? I can’t imagine it, he left us before I learned his name, let alone learned to love him, and I never understood how you could never just feel like cursing him for leaving you alone with a kid like me. I know I couldn't have been the easiest brat to raise, and god knows how you found the patience of a saint for it.  _

_ I don’t feel like Gene would ever leave me- not unexpectedly, anyway, not without reason. We talk so much, it’s honestly kind of incredible that there’s still words to share between us. Sometimes we don’t even need words at all, and minutes will go by before either of us realize that we’ve shared a whole conversation but not a word’s been spoken. It could be something left over from the war, from when we had to be quiet or run the risk of alerting the other side, and me and Gene would often be partnered up and I could read the furrow of his brow like he read his little bible. And while I like to think I keep things locked up pretty tightly, I think Sledge could see through me from the beginning. Then again, so could Burgie, so I’m either an easier book to read than I thought (in which case… oh no), or they’re just that attuned to me.  _

_ I’d like to think they’re just that attuned to me.  _

_ That used to scare me, the idea of being known so well that I wouldn’t need to say a damn word to communicate. I was (am, still, sometimes) such an asshole in the hope that it would push people away and they wouldn’t be able to get close enough to hurt me, and it worked because everyone either hated me or thought I was just a weird ass son of a bitch. I’m actually surprised by the amount of people who had enough patience to worm their way through my bullshit- hell I’m astounded every day that Gene hasn’t gotten tired of me. It’s not like I’m the only one who gets what the war was like, but whatever he sees in me, I hope it’s enough.  _

_ I… I really am trying to be better. Gene says he likes me fine as I am, prickly barriers and all, and I know he doesn’t need kid gloves because he can bark back just as sharply as I can, but there’s something. Intimate, I think, about just being able to let my guard down around Gene. It’s getting easier as the moths go by, I may well just lose my reputation around the streets if I keep this up. I don’t mind that as much as I thought I would.  _

_ Remember how I told you about that nickname Burgie gave me? Snafu? I’d been so proud of it when Burgie gave it to me. It was a- a sign that I was one of them, not just a boot who they probably thought would die any day now. Or something like that, it just felt important. I feel kind of guilty now, because it’s Burgie and I know he gave it to me as a bit of teasing because I’m a fucking disaster, or I was one when he met me (I guess I still am one now), but it feels… backhanded now.  _

_ Situation normal, all fucked up.  _

_ Was I ever really normal, ma? Hard to really make friends when everyone’s childhood experiences are so different to yours, and few people back home want to talk to me because of the ol’ Shelton reputation.  _ _  
_

_ I mean, I guess being an ass didn’t help, that’s definitely on me. But like I said, I’m trying, and that’s about as much as I can do.  _

_ Yours, Merry _

_ … _

The sun gleams hotly on their backs, scorching packed earth and turning any metal surface into a burning hazard. Around them, the water glistens invitingly, cool to the touch and easily alleviating the swelter of the hot day, the muddier ground around it pleasantly fresh and squishy against Merriel’s toes. 

Beside him, Sledge frowns, still in his white shirt though he’s rolled up the sleeves, the back of it soaked through with sweat, a sheen of it covering his pale, reddened face, beads sliding down to drip off his chin. His hair’s been turned to bright flame by a stroke of sunlight, and Snafu finds his eyes fixed to it, tracing from where Sledge’s bangs have turned dark copper and clumped with sweat up to where the sun keeps the soft silk of it dry and blazing, calling to be touched. 

His skin itches with the sting of what might later be a sunburn, his shirt discarded in favor of wanting to immediately jump into the water before Sledge stops him, wary of gators that might be nearby though Snafu had assured him over and over again that this particular pond had none, that at worse, they’d find a turtle or frogs. Sledge has a hand on his shoulder, both of their skin dotted with freckles, brown dots collected on Sledge’s hand and up his arm, Snafu’s shoulders sprinkled in them. He’s hot, his throat dry and uncomfortable, but he waits until Sledge is done checking around the pond, neither gators nor snakes in sight, though his mouth still twitches with a doubtful nervousness. He doesn’t stop Snafu when he takes a few tentative steps into the almost icy water though, he watches his process avidly, licking his chapped lips as the water licks Snafu’s bronzed skin, swallowing him up to his chest at the deepest part. 

Snafu grins, gently splashing water at him in invitation before ducking his head below the gently lapping waves to deal with the awful flush on his skin, sighing in relief at how the air suddenly feels much colder when he breaks the surface again, his head no longer feeling as if on fire from the way his dark curls take in the heat. 

“You comin’ in or what?” he asks Sledge, a smirk curling on his mouth when he sees the look in Sledge’s eyes, dark and wanting, his tongue swiping again at his pink lips. His Adam's apple bobs as he watches Snafu push hair away from his eyes (it’s gotten longer, he hasn’t cut it in a while, tight curls framing his smiling face). 

“Y- yeah. Yeah, I’ll just take off my shirt…” he trails off, still watching Snafu, and Snafu wonders what he’s thinking about, what sort of flashes of thought are swirling behind that pale forehead, in those dark, forest eyes. 

Sledge doesn’t bother with the buttons of his shirt. He shucks it off, folds it, and sets it down neatly next to the pile of Snafu’s clothes, followed by his boots and his slacks until he’s just his boxers. He pauses by the shore of the pond, kneading his toes into the mud where Snafu had only a moment ago done the same, a shiver crawling up his spine when the water fills up the little grooves in the earth. It’s… Snafu knows that it’s just different enough to not cause either of them to spiral, but it’s just close enough to bring up images of the beach and its pale sands, the crabs that pinched their skin bloody. The waters, crystal blue, so clear they could see the dead bodies washing onto the shore, or simply disappearing under the waves. 

Sledge dips his foot in, shivers, and keeps going. 

“How is it  _ freezing _ ”, he grumbles. Snafu snorts. 

“It’s a good thing, actually, that the water’s cold. Saves us from the fucking heat”, says Snafu, dipping his head down just a little bit, so the water sits just beneath his nose. It already feels like his hair’s drying with the heat. 

Sledge rolls his eyes at him, but hurries to acclimate, getting up to his ankles, then pausing when the water’s at his shins, leaning down to cup water into his hands and splash it over his overly warm face, washing away his sweaty flush. Snafu watches little rivulets of water trail down his white arms, the fine hairs gently guiding the little droplets to Sledge’s elbows and back to the pond, and he looks so bright, to Snafu, right then, fiery and warm, a heart so big he wonders how it fits in his scrawny chest. 

He’s caught staring and Sledge’s eyes go all soft, the edges creasing with the smile he offers. He quickens his trip through the water, finally adjusting to the difference in temperature and then they’re together, simply cooling off, Snafu feeling sleepy and floaty. Sledge’s hands find his skin, trace the patterns of his freckles with wet fingertips, a pleasant warmth pooling in Snafu’s belly. He feels Sledge’s chin on his shoulder, his warm breath puffing against his throat and he presses his head back onto Sledge’s shoulder, reveling in the simple touch, the human connection he’d spent so long pushing away. 

Sledge presses a little butterfly kiss to his shoulder, and it’s fine, no one’s there to see them. Snafu closes his eyes, indulges in the sensation. 

The day scorches, but today it does not bring up bad memories. 

…

_ Dear Sid _

_ I’ve spent so much of my life restless that I don’t think I ever properly took the time to appreciate the people around me. I thought I did, before, but I guess you never truly realize how much anyone means to you until you’ve been faced with the very real possibility that you might never see them again.  _

_ That may be ironic, considering I did not go home after the war, but rather ran off to a state I wasn’t familiar with, full of people I didn’t know. Even the one person I did know I didn’t know all that well, considering that his life was kind of a mystery to me before I went home with him and realized just how human he is. Honestly, if the last time I ever saw Merriell was on the train, I probably would have thought him a specter, or a shared delusion, since I’m not the only one who could see him. Am I making sense? I don’t know, it’s very late and I just woke up from a dream that has me shaken. Merriell woke me up, and he wanted to stay up to comfort me, but I wanted some time alone to think- and besides, he looks so tired. He caught a cough recently and I want him to rest as much as he can, so I told him to go back to sleep.  _

_ Who knows if I’ll even send this letter, or if I’ll tuck it into my journal. Well, if I do send it, maybe you’ll be able to parse out my thoughts. I apologize if they’re more than a bit disjointed.  _

_ Surprisingly, my dream was not about the war. Perhaps that is why I did not want to tell Merriel about it when he offered, it was not something he would really know what to do with. Or maybe he would, but I still did not want to worry him more than I already had, especially since he’s still running a fever.  _

_ I dreamed that… well to be honest I am not sure how to explain it. I was home, sitting at the dinner table and I was with my family having a big meal. It seemed that everyone I knew was there, my parents and aunts, cousins, you and Mary, Burgie, Leyden and Jay and we were all laughing as we ate. I felt that something was missing though, and couldn’t bring myself to touch my food. That feeling settled into deep unease in the pit of my stomach and the food on my plate didn’t seem so appetizing anymore, so much so that it began to spoil before my eyes, soft bread hardening, turning green and furry, the chicken turning sickly and slimy. And yet everyone kept eating, rotted brown vegetables churned into my mother’s mouth, putrid sludge that may have been an apple once poured down my father’s throat.  _

_ I realized a moment later that I was not at the table, but I was. See, I was observing from the threshold, but I was also there, sitting beside Eddie, laughing and biting into a moldy roll that had to feel like a rock against my teeth if it didn't taste like one. And I looked younger. Not as tired, the dark circles gone from under my eyes, my hands were free of calluses and scars, my skin a little paler. It was me, before the war, I could just. Tell. That version looked so much happier than I ever felt, sitting at that table. That version of me had yet to have death mock him face to face.  _

_ Merriell appeared by my side, in his dress uniform, looking beautiful and pristine. He walked past me without acknowledging that I was there and sat at the table, unnoticed by anyone there. He ate a bit of chicken, and began to choke. Still, no one noticed him, and I couldn’t move to help him though my heart was screaming at me to do something, blood trailing in a small, thin line down his mouth, his eyes bulging from his face. I’ve seen Snafu die so many times in my dreams, but this is probably the strangest iteration of it. The version of me at the table looked at him, finally, and looked faintly sad.  _

_ Another version of Merriell appeared beside me, this one looking how I knew him now. He said to me, “they miss a version of you that’s already dead. They eat with the ghost of you because they don’t realize or they’re too scared to admit that you’ve changed in ways they’d never understand. You’re a stranger who’s replaced their child, their friend, and they resent you for it. But they never knew me. You can't mourn for someone you never knew.”  _

_ The odd thing is that I swear he said all of it in French, but my French is still a, ah, work in progress, so I don't know how I understood him so clearly.  _

_ I guess you could say it is related to war somewhat, but I think I almost prefer the more straightforward dreams. I don’t know what to think of it, it just left me very unsettled and I needed to put it down before it disappeared from my mind. I am surprised by how vivid it was, for such an abstract dream, but the mind is a strange thing. Maybe it is stress from school and work and worry for Merriell that has twisted my dreams so much.  _

_ I think I’ll go back to Merriell now, I can hear him coughing in the other room.  _

_ Your best friend, Eugene.  _

_ … _

“I’m fine, stop fussin”, says Snafu, his voice raspy and his eyes bloodshot, dabbing at his leaky nose with the back of his hand. He smothers a cough. Sledge levels him with an unimpressed  glare. 

“Get back in bed, I know how to make an omelette by now”, Sledge scolds, guiding his errant boyfriend back into their room and despite Snafu’s protests, Sledge isn’t met with much resistance. 

Three days now and Snafu still hasn’t recovered, his nose bright red and his skin overly warm though he shivers, arms curling protectively over his middle, bony little shoulders jittering with the force of his shivers. For a man who lost his mind over something as small as a papercut, he was never quite so much of hypochondriac when it came to more serious illness. Sledge manages to tuck him back into bed, kissing his fevered forehead, ruffling his dark curls and smiling softly when Snafu falls asleep again before he can complain about it. 

Sledge isn’t as good a cook as Snafu, but he’s gotten far better at it, no longer so unadept at the stove that he sets their food on fire (though, admittedly, the omelette comes out a little bit over salted, but rather that than altogether bland). He eats his, and then gently coaxes Snafu awake to eat a few bites of egg before allowing him to give up. Sledge doesn’t have classes, so he makes the executive decision to crawl back into bed, picking up the heavy book by his nightstand and flicking through the pages to find his bookmark.

He isn’t surprised when he feels Snafu press against him, smiling as he twines their hands together and tracing a circle with his thumb on the back of Snafu’s hand. Snafu snuffles softly, like a kitten, his head finding Sledge’s lap, leaning into his belly as if seeking out warmth. Sledge cards his hands through his curls, blunt nails brushing against his scalp because he knows it helps Snafu sleep. He looks so small, curled up in bed, more boy than soldier, a piece of him that lingers with an innocence Sledge doesn’t think Snafu knows he has, his face relaxed with proper sleep on a properly soft, warm bed, all delicately curving edges, from the smooth slide of his cheeks to the plump pink of his mouth. 

Even knowing him now, seeing behind the prickly wall, he seems like a mystery, something not quite from this world. 

When they’d first met, Sledge had thought him some avatar of war, a creature of violence and fire and blood, that he could only exist on that battlefield surrounded by bodies and grief. He’s proven himself softer than that, proven that he, like the rest of them, had simply been trying to survive, a scared boy surrounded by death and the threat of never getting to go home to a world that seemed so far away to them. But he’d shoved so much of himself to the back that when he’d begun to unpack the rest of Merriell Shelton from the safe corners of his mind, Sledge had been shocked, because he had thought that before their return to Louisiana, he’d had a good grasp as to who Snafu was. 

He didn’t know that he likes to write. To cook, to sweeten his coffee to the point of making it cloying, his love of little stray animals. And all of it, each new chapter of Merriell Shelton, it only makes him love him more. 

Sledge brushes his hand through Merriell’s hair and quiets the churn of his thoughts. Their relationship is… different. Sledge can’t imagine that this is the relationship his parents had wanted for him, and as much as it pains him that he can never share it with the world, there’s something comforting about being able to keep it to himself. This is something that belongs to Sledge alone, the facets of Merriell his to admire because Merriell  _ trusts _ him enough to show them to him. Eventually, Sledge closes his book and places it back on the bedside table, kisses Merriell's cheek and follows him to sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed that!


End file.
